Paint it Black
by TheBlackCatCrossing
Summary: A retelling of "Flashpoint: Knight of Vengeance": He was the man who gave her the most precious treasure. He was the father of their only son. He was also the man she wanted dead. Martha Wayne tries to adjust to life 'After Joker'. Can she come to terms with her past? Can she leave truly leave her old persona behind? Mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Never Let Me Down Again**

 **Chapter 1: Wherever I may roam….**

 **Synopsis: He was the man she hurt and wanted dead. He was also the man who gave her the most precious treasure. He was the father of their only son, a son who was living out there, somewhere. What if Martha had lived? A retelling of the 2011 Flashpoint tie-in 'Knight of Vengeance'.**

 **Rating: M. This story will contain strong and sensitive themes. Reader discretion is advised.**

 **Author's note: I would like to extend my thanks to my amazing beta, Miss Jo for her immense talent. She just knows when to add that pep and pop to my wall of text. I would have posted this sooner but she was trapped over at Marvel after becoming addicted to Stucky. She still is. I have had this idea for months but due to real life I held off on it until I was certain I could write it down. In fact, according to my docs, the earliest draft goes back to February, yikes! I was originally going to post this as a one shot but as of this writing, the story is up to forty pages. Yeah. Anywho, I hope you enjoy this. I am disappointed that Knight of Vengeance was pretty much ignored in the Flashpoint movie. Ironically, it was the most popular tie in of that crossover. Boo, DC!**

 **This story was inspired and borrows elements from the 2011 Flashpoint crossover tie-in 'Knight of Vengeance #1-#3 by Brian Azzarello and Eduardo Risso. This will be part 1 of many chapters.**

* * *

 _And my ties are severed clean, the less I have the more I gain_

 _Off the beaten path I reign_

 _Roamer, wanderer, nomad, vagabond, call me what you will_

She was a woman with a plan.

It was all going so smoothly. She had lured Gordon to this place by carefully placing her chess pieces. The pizza boy, the missing car; it was a lead that _he_ could not ignore.

But she wasn't thinking about Gordon. In spite of his training and his ability to handle a powerful weapon, Gordon could have been anyone's helpless grandfather. He was merely the bait. He was only one part, not the main portion. It was all about catching him at the most vulnerable moment, like a professional hunter who waits patiently while his trophy moves it head so that they can deliver the deadly shot to the heart. That silly old man was nothing more than a chicken to lure the catch she _really_ wanted.

She knew _he_ would not be able to resist this. The set-up was perfection itself. She had him caught in her web by luring him here using Dent's twins.

She used tape to keep the crying brat from making too much noise. Her brother was better behaved. She noticed how small he was; the bright blue eyes looking up at her.

 _My God, he's no older than Br .._.

..."You look just like your _**mother,**_ " she purred. The children huddled close together in a sad attempt to protect one another. She was like a snake in their midst.

" _You."_ She pointed at the girl. "Get on the chair."

The girl, Dolores, awkwardly pushed herself to her feet. She was a book worm and thought the lady with the white make-up was like something out of her nightmares; a clown left out in the rain until her makeup ran down her face, white and black and blood-red mixing and dripping from her eyes and chin. Dolores almost felt sorry for her when she pictured her like this, but the clown lady's meanness put any burgeoning pity to bed. She was an amalgam of the White Witch Jadis and a cruel, secretive teacher at a haunted boarding school.

Dolores' father was a judge, and she remembered him talking about the scary people who lived in Gotham. There had been no effort at keeping the information from her, though he'd never spoken about them to her directly; rather, she'd be languishing in the background, painting or playing a video game, as he ranted and raved about them to her mother. She remembered him talking about a group that used masks to commit dangerous crimes. Dolores thought of them as weird, like the groups where the men could marry many women. She'd learned a new word from her father that day; _'cult'_. The face paint on this woman reminded her of that group.

Dolores did as she was told and stood on the chair. The clown had a gun. She tensed when she felt the _wooosh_ of a coat brush past her. She started to cry when she felt hands on her; saw them veined and trembling, fingers tensed, tipped by painted feral claws.

"It's such a shame you won't live to see your Sweet Sixteen. I'm sure Harvey's looking forward to walking you down the aisle," she said, in a gentle tone. "But, think about it this way. I'm not angry at you. You see, you are _helping_ me."

Dolores blinked. She couldn't understand what the lady meant. How was she helping her while she was tied up?

"So many questions in that little face. My dear, I am hunting a very large animal. I'm hunting a bat, but in this case let's pretend he's a tiger. In order to trap the tiger, I must use bait. I have Gordon here because, quite frankly, I am fed up with him getting in the way. But you see, you are the fruit, Gordon is the fly and the Bat is the bat….get it? It's all a big chain!"

Dolores blinked. "So I'm helping by being killed? That's crazy!"

The clown lady frowned. "You're too young to understand your role in this, my dear." She then pulled out something from her pocket. Dolores' heart raced. It turned out that it wasn't a gun. It was lipstick. It was red just like her lips.

"You will never do this with YOUR mother, so why don't we make this special?" she smiled.

Dolores wished that this was a bad dream and that Daniel would wake her up by pouring cold water on her face, like he always did on Saturday mornings when she wanted to sleep in and he wanted her to watch his favorite cartoon show with him.

Just then, they heard a loud bang from the grand foyer. It was Gordon.

" _Let the show begin!"_ she announced with a flourish, and chuckled.

* * *

As a longtime friend of the Wayne family, Commissioner Jim Gordon had been a guest at their estate many times. Consequently, he had an intricate knowledge of the rooms, secret passageways, every nook and cranny. For sure, it had been years since he'd last set foot in the place, but he was positive that after Thomas had moved out, the details remained the same. Thomas hadn't bothered to renovate the place; he'd pretty much left it to rot. The only things left behind were a few old chairs, dust and rats. Damp crawled up the walls, sending a chill through every room; Jim was certain that if he turned over the remaining sticks of furniture, he'd find marine life growing on their bottoms.

He heard a struggle from the top of the grand staircase. _Of course_. _She_ had to be here. He remembered how she would serenade guests with her chiffon gowns and speeches about the new children's wing at Gotham General, the Wayne-funded safe houses for at-risk teens, the educational initiatives throughout the city. He remembered the scent of L'Heure Bleue; her meticulous makeup. She'd been the toast of all the fashion magazines; Best-Dressed Woman here, Style Icon of the Year there. Not that he'd ever particularly cared about that stuff, but he'd had a fiancee back in the day who used to read these magazines religiously, and was always on at him to take her to Wayne Manor so she could check whether _Harpers Bazaar_ was telling the truth when it claimed that Martha Wayne owned the largest collection of designer shoes on the East Coast.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Gordon adjusted his collar. The Joker had the advantage of the home front. She was like a black widow spider, waiting waiting _waiting_. He glanced around the door of one room. Nothing. It was one of the old studies, totally cleaned out.

The next room was Martha's old powder room. Gordon knew that she had no problem with acquiring make-up. Tips at the station included descriptions of a woman, the lower half of her face concealed by a scarf, stealing eyeliner at local drug stores. She was too quick; she slipped out into the night. No Nordstrom or Sephora for her now; she would be recognized too easily, those snooty assistants had long memories.

There was nothing except an old dresser, tossed over. A broken mirror was smeared with lipstick.

" _Home Sweet Home….."_ it said.

 _Martha, what have you done_?

Then he heard the sound come closer. He saw something on the floor.

It was Daniel. He was so small, so helpless.

Jim suddenly remembered how at the precinct there was a bulletin board entitled "The Therapy Wall'. Young clerks fresh out of college would post funny images of children and animals. Officers would occasionally share images of their smiling families. The most popular one was from Sergeant Wells, who posted an image of his son, William, and their German Shepherd, Hans. They were both 'praying'. This was done as a way to cushion the pressure of working three shifts that may or may not have included dealing with drug dealers, murderers, child abusers and other sordid crimes Gordon did not want to think about.

Then he saw her.

The bitch was standing over him.

He shot at her, aiming at her heart. Gordon's relief was short lived. It was until he saw the chair moving that he noticed something was very wrong. There were no feet, only four pegs where two legs should have been. The coat falling to the floor revealed a child that was tied to a chair.

 _That damn witch!_

"Here, I'm going to help-"

He didn't finish his train of thought when he felt something.

It felt like a paper cut across his neck. Then he felt something pour down. He felt his shirt moisten. He thought it was sweat. Then he saw a pinkish and crimson tide flow down his shirt.

It was his own blood.

"She won't listen, you know. _They never do."_

Little Daniel Dent looked on helplessly. He looked just like…

 _No._

She cut off the thought before it could grow.

 _There is a reason why you had him as bait and why the girl was the sacrificial lamb_.

Stop it.

 _He reminds you of_ ….

She took Gordon's phone and reconfigured the settings. She wanted to give the bastard and his crew a bird's eye view of the show. One of her technically gifted henchmen had shown her how to manipulate and scramble the frequency so that she wouldn't be located. Not even that hacker cow Selina Kyle could find her, not now.

Just then, a sudden loud noise came from the front.

 _He_ was here.

 _And here. we. go..._

" _ **WHAT HAVE YOU DONE THIS TIME, MARTHA?!"**_

"Oh _yes,_ my dear. Again and again and _again_ , all your mistakes _piling up._ " She was proud of her work. In her mind, she had reinvented herself as an artist. People were her tools, her canvas. Her vision was a Goya painting. The greats used oil on canvas. She used blood as ink; skin as parchment. Tears as appraisal. Of _course_.

She slithered into the shadows, and waited. This was one advantage she had over him. He was brilliant but he had bulk and age was catching up to him. She still had her cat-like reflexes.

 _Cats._

 _Cats in the dark._

 _Darkness their natural hunting time._

 _This is because they see well in the dim light._

 _Dim lights. Computers._

 _Cats and computers._

 _Like that CUNT after I spayed her..._

 _A_ bulletended all of those thought processes. She focused. She didn't want to get distracted...

 _...Ahh._

 _There_ he was! He was getting on in years, his face lined by the stress of his work. Whether it was his 'day' job as a doctor or his moonlighting as the Bat, she neither knew nor cared. She saw the jowls. She saw the creases deepening, the furrowed brow. His nasolabial folds becoming more pronounced.

… He'd been _such_ a handsome man. Still was, even with age. He had that rigorous look; the lion-in-winter type. The type whose presence filled the room. Even in repose, he was _there._ Always.

She anticipated their encounters. It was another opportunity for him to pay for his crime. Another chance for her to seek her revenge.

He was no longer that man, the man she'd loved. The man she'd once shared a bed with. The man she'd committed to spending the rest of her life with. The father of her only child.

 _He'd_ died that night in that alley too.

 _It was all his fault._

He did it, and he had to pay. Over and _over_ again. She hid in the shadows. She wanted him _very_ distracted.

"I'm going to help you, okay?" he said gently.

That was how he used to speak to her. So gentle. So kind. So … utterly _useless._

But this time he wasn't saying those words to her.

Little Daniel Dent's brain was processing images that would forever be sealed into the deep part of his consciousness. Even if he saw a specialist and retrained his memories, he would _always_ remember this. Even as a thirty-year old MIT graduate working on his biochemistry papers, the memories of this night would haunt him. He was little Daniel in the lion's den.

A small sound caused her to spin around rapidly.

But the sound didn't wasn't him.

It was the little girl, Dolores.

Batman's primary focus shifted from finding the Joker to saving the children. Dolores had a bullet wound; the bullet may or may not have lodged itself into a part of her body. The fact that she was just barely breathing meant that there was still time. Now was not the time for revenge - there was a life to save.

Dolores's wound was spreading like red ink dipped in water. He had to act fast. With her tiny frame, that would mean that she could go into shock at any second. He needed to bring her back into full consciousness. It meant that he had to do something that was painful but necessary.

He pulled a small vial of salt from his utility belt, flipped the cap, and poured the contents onto the wound. Her cries confirmed his thoughts. It was painful for her, but it was a necessary step.

She would live.

"I know it hurts," he said, "but the pain means you are alive."

 _My God, they are no older than Br_ -

"… _m' cold_ …"

"What?" he asked.

" _I'm cold….."_

The words tugged at his memories. Those were the exact words _Bruce_ had said that night.

 _One night._

One night where they could spend time as a family. The first in weeks. He and Martha had busy lives. Thomas was busy with his career, saving lives. Making early breakthroughs in biomedical science. Martha played hostess to Gotham's richest; other times, she would slip out into the night, makeup-less and in jeans, and visit hostels and safe-houses and homeless shelters. She would also visit hospitals in less affluent neighborhoods. She distributed sandwiches and soup to the homeless; clean works to junkies, baby formula to impoverished mothers. She tended to wounds; soothed fevered brows. She held babies who were born with HIV and crack in their little systems.

Bruce had loved sports, martial arts, and he excelled in math and sciences. Anything that involved solving problems, being proactive. He had a promising start, having been taught to use his position of privilege for good. Just a few days before that night, Bruce's tutors had told Thomas about his little acts of charity towards his classmates. He didn't do it for social capital. He did it because he wanted to. It was a trait Thomas had instilled in his son that he was proud of.

He knew upon doing his research that Dent's twins were going to Gotham Magnet. Dolores loved animals and enjoyed selling lemon meringue cookies with her girl scout troop. Daniel had an interest in airplanes and had dreams of being a pilot. Thomas took it upon himself to make sure that these children would live to see those dreams. He did everything he could so that the Joker would never cross paths with Judge Dent; not because he was an important figure of the city, but because he was the type who would ask questions. Dent was prone to bursts of anger before others saw the turn; he could hear him yelling, visualize him flinging a scotch glass across the room or kicking over a chair. _Why the FUCK are the likes of Ivy and Croc dead, while the Joker lives?_

Thomas knew what he'd have to say; that the privatized police force had nothing to do with that. It was to throw him off his scent. Only he, Gordon and Oswald Cobblepot knew the truth.

The Joker was Martha.

" _I'm cold…."_

Dolores was regaining consciousness, and Daniel wasn't hurt. They were his priority now. Batman was about to comfort the children when he heard a shriek.

Then a strong blow to his cranium, vibrating through the protective cowl.

" _HOW... DARE... YOU?!"_

She fell upon him, a whirlwind of claws and scratches and punches. He curled around the children, shielding them, taking the force of the blows. Whether it was familiarity with his work or years of practice, she knew exactly _where_ to hit him. The top part of his spine by his skull was susceptible, as was the side of his face.

He only had seconds to do this. He moved the children to the side while she hit him with a hammer. He knew she was acting out of rage. It was an emotional reaction. Blood trickled down his face. As soon as the children were secured, he focused on _her._ His tactic was to wait until she was so enraged that she did not notice him pull her towards him and towards the window.

They both fell out of the second story room into what had been their garden, barely missing a statue of a lissome girl with a watering-can, bent over a flowerbed. His body cushioned her fall as they rolled onto the wet and shadowed grass. She clawed her way on top of him. Her features were wild, seeming abnormally stretched and feral under the cracked, caked-on warpaint, all teeth and bleeding gums and glistening, ecstatic eyes.

"You're blind to your own _rage_ , darling," she hissed.

"Emotional gibberish," he huffed, pulling himself up. He was slightly disoriented from the blood loss and the fall. In a split second she was up and away from him, her arms wide, taunting.

"It's true, _old man_." She laughed and staggered a little, then regained her composure, pushing a bloodied hand through her hair. "Of course, being a _hopeless romantic_ , when we were falling…I thought _you_ might land on top. For old time's sake."

" _Old times?_ You want to go _there?_ " He lunged forward and grabbed her. She didn't resist him. He grasped her, tightly, and lowered his mouth to her ear. His voice was gravel.

"A man and a woman and their only son cut through an alley after the movies…."

He felt her tremble.

" _Shut up,"_ she hissed.

"They get mugged..."

Oh God, she could still feel the tug of the pearls. "Shut _up!_ "

" _Bang. BANG."_

Thomas Wayne was a lot of things to many people: mysterious, intimidating, punitive, but never sadistic. Cruel, yes but he didn't take pleasure in making people uncomfortable. He _hated_ doing this, but it had to be done. She had to remember what really happened that night; not what her mind had tricked her into believing so she could "cope." She couldn't cope. Not that way. The evidence was right in front of him.

 _Thomas was not responsible for Bruce dying. It was a tragedy caused by the gunman._

In the aftermath of the tragedy, she'd run it over and over in her mind; her grief turning into a profound depression, her depression into rage. Her rage concocted a new angle to the story; it hadn't been a random act. It was all _his_ fault. _He_ was the doctor, yet he couldn't save his own son. It was a comforting narrative to quell her own guilt: that she did not arrive with the police on time.

This embellished tale justified her anger towards him. It was a blame game that had grown from a festering wound to a cancerous tumor.

Thomas continued.

"The man and the woman fall dead. Their _son_ lives…."

… _. Wait. What's he talking about?_

"I have an opportunity to make that _real,_ to rewrite history. And as twisted as it sounds, I need to know from you, Martha— _Should I?_ "

He was offering her an olive branch under the most extraordinary circumstances.

So much pain, so many tears.

She'd broken his bones and his heart, but she hadn't broken his spirit. When Thomas knew something, he followed up on it, no stone left unturned. He followed protocol, but when the usual steps led to nothing, he would use other means. The administration would do what it could to help but they had to answer to state regulations. He was always successful.

That was how he'd cured little Tommy Elliott's leukemia. If someone needed a bone marrow transplant, he would phone other states or even other countries for a match. This was why he was respected as a doctor.

He was not the type to believe in outlandish tall tales. Thomas was a man of medicine, not superstition. Now it seemed that someone somewhere was offering them an opportunity to make circumstances right, even if it meant a less than ideal result. What mattered to her was that Bruce was the one who lived.

" _Promise me, Thomas_." There were tears now. "Promise me you will." Her voice was hoarse, sentimental. It was as if something had gone out of her. He felt her sag with … with resignation? Acceptance? Relief?"I will," he said.

When she felt his lips press against hers, her senses were arrested. She was also aroused. She melted into the kiss. And finally, after so much time apart, they reconnected.

The rain continued to fall, as if it was washing away their bloodied, storied history.

She asked about their son. What kind of life was he living? She had hoped that he wouldn't misuse his privileged upbringing and spend his inheritance on lavish vacations and buxom blondes.

Thomas looked away slightly. "He follows in his father's footsteps."

Promising, but it was not good enough.

"Is he a doctor?" She turned, nervous at the answer. It was almost as if she knew. She needed to hear it from him.

" _No."_

She tried to pull away but his grip was too powerful.

" _No_ , Martha!" He tightened his grip. She had gotten used to his manner of forceful handling. After all, this was someone who for the last fifteen years he was her mortal enemy. To hear that sound tugged at memories that she thought she had long buried.

" _Let me go!"_ she shrieked. _"No! Let me end it here!"_

She thrashed about, Thomas barely managing to contain her. _God knows where she'd acquired this strength,_ he thought; _the indefatigable strength of the insane._ She was unwilling to process the words that came out of his mouth, that was clear. He hadn't said them, but the implications were too much.

Martha, meanwhile, was lost. Somewhere on another plane, in another dimension, their son was healthy and living. Somewhere in an alternate reality, it was she and Thomas who had succumbed to the mysterious gunman's wounds. Bruce was alive, but ….. he wasn't a doctor.

He was that….that _monster_ staring back at her.

Somewhere in that reality, Bruce – their child, that sweet and loving child who'd given gifts to his classmates unprompted, who'd asked them to donate his birthday presents to a children's hospital - was living with _her_ pain. And Thomas's pain.

It was too much.

Her son didn't deserve that.

It couldn't be. She didn't want to register it. She did not want the admission to process in her mind. She would give anything to reverse what happened that night, yet here was the source of her pain attempting to stop her from achieving it.

She felt him pulling her away from the ravine. She then felt a wall of muscle press against her. Thomas held her close.

"Martha, I can fix this." He exhaled softly. "I can make it so that Bruce lives. I can undo all of this but just give me some time."

She felt her body tense less. Her body began to relax. That voice. It was not gruff and commanding. It was not intimidating. It was gentle and loving.

So _warm._ She pressed her forearms against Thomas. He held her firmly. She wanted to get a better look at the man who'd caused all of this.

The man she'd battled with on an almost fortnightly basis.

The man she'd engaged with in a battle of weapons, traps, and wits.

The man whom she'd hurt with poisons, chemicals, and psychological intimidation.

The man whose bones she had broken.

The same man who was not above snapping the necks of others like her, yet had never hurt her.

The same man who'd turn her over to the Asylum; who'd never give into the demands of the public and media pundits who wanted her sent to the electric chair.

The man whose heart she had broken. And who had broken hers in turn.

The man who had given her the most precious treasure; the man who was the father of her son. Their son, who was living somewhere.

Thomas could see the change in her. Her eyes, hitherto full of movement and madness, now seemed calm. There was a hint of regret, along with the placidity.

There was no point in rubbing salt into the wounds. The most important thing was that the twins were safe, and that she didn't fall into the abyss and break her neck. He pulled her close to him again, their lips interlocking.

"There might be paparazzi watching," she said gently, placing her gloved hands on his lips. "Oh God, what about the cops?"

"I already took care of that."

"What about Gordon? Won't the police come looking for him?" she asked, genuinely concerned. "Oh, God, I'm….I'm…" Thomas held her hands.

"Hide in the cave until I say so." he said in a low voice. "I'll hold off the police. I'll talk to Oswald, to members of the department who were friendly with Gordon."

"But, I killed your best PR. I, I….killed your friend. Bullock isn't friendly to you from what I heard."

"Collateral damage," Thomas stated sharply. "Look. I just … I just need you to stay _low_ until I say it's okay."

 **End of Chapter 1. To be continued…..**


	2. Chapter 2: Make Me Over

Title: Never Let Me Down Again

Chapter 2: Make Me Over

Author's note: Thank you for reading. I would like to thank Miss Jo for her betaing skills.

* * *

Even though he was a beacon of hope for the city, his code of ethics was not exactly spotless.

He kept her hidden using various means. Oswald, his trusty companion, second only to Gordon when it came to loyalty, made sure she was taken care of in a suite at one of the Wayne hotels. She stayed there while the media reported the events to the public.

" **Gordon killed in Joker attack, Dent twins unharmed."**

" **Joker disappeared. "Likely dead'" says police chief"**

" **Memorial for fallen Police Commissioner held at the Cathedral of Our Lady; Thomas Wayne in attendance."**

" **Joker 'is dead'; GCPD cite Batman'.**

" **Dent Twins attend Dixon Junior Preparatory; Judge Dent "very happy and we are moving on."**

Thomas made careful arrangements for Martha while the public recovered from this chain of events. As far as the media, pundits, academic scholars, law enforcement, legal and forensic experts were concerned, Joker had died that night along with the Commissioner. The news bulletins and chat shows spun reams of speculation. Some believed Batman had killed her; others theorized that Commissioner Gordon had in fact delivered the coup de grace in a heroic act of self-sacrifice. The monster of Gotham was gone, and Gotham could breathe – for a little while.

Now was the time to heal.

For Martha, this was a rebirth, a chance to start over.

As a lover of art, both in her youth and in her 'old' life, she understood the importance of symbolism and subtext. Goya painted Saturn devouring his children like meat. Bosch and Memling understood the significance of imagery to enhance their most disturbing work. She herself had come to view her crimes as a form of "performance art," as the Joker persona consumed her from the inside out. She'd hacked into her own face, turning the corners of her mouth into a bloodied relief-map, yet never quite destroying her beauty; in a strange way, the disfigurement only served to amplify that which had been left untouched.

But that history was now tainted. Freshly repentant, deeply ashamed, Martha wanted to shed the 'Joker' history like a singer wishing to reinvent their image.

Her suite overlooked the city. By early evening, the sun had melted to a rivulet of orange sinking below the horizon, and the sky above was a soft purple. The buildings looked like illuminated wedding-cakes or Christmas trees, speckled with golden lights, crowned by neon signs that flashed on and off.

It was on nights like this where she remembered the galas. Some had been held in the ballroom of the manor; others, the ones she liked best, had been held in the courtyard. Patrons in exquisite gowns and sharp suits chattered and laughed beneath rows of strung colored lanterns or golden-hued gas lamps. Michelin-starred chefs served grilled Wagyu steaks, lobster and swordfish kabobs from a vast barbecue; there was a long table bedecked with salads resembling miniature gardens, heaped fruits, meringues and whipped cream, champagne towers. It was under these same skies she would look out a decrepit window in an abandoned building, living off two-day-old Chinese takeout or pizza scavenged from the trash.

She recalled how she and her henchmen would dress incognito and steal some fruit from the local growers. The sellers at the stands were college kids, fresh on the market but still very green when it came to business and real world social politics. They would talk about the evils of capitalism in an abstract way. These kids grew up in nice homes. It was sort of funny, like a toddler reciting the national anthem.

She knew the type. Piano lessons, a foreign nanny, and a summer lake house in Connecticut. They talked about "marginalized" people as if they were exotic animals and how disadvantaged they were and yet, these same pampered brats would not set foot in an 'ethnic' market in the poor part of town.

One of them made a disparaging comment about Thomas. She did not catch the whole exchange but she caught enough to hear that Thomas was being accused of hoarding medicine and that was why the poor could not afford the treatments. Never mind the many hours of lack of sleep, never mind the work the interns did. Never mind the various equations he wrote down to perfect the formula so that it would be safe for mass market. Never mind the fucking Nobel Peace Prize!

Martha spat with indignation and walked away, hiding some of the citrus fruits under a heavy purple coat she had acquired from a second hand store.

It was another bitter reminder of the disparity between the haves and the have-nots.

The transition period of lying low was an unusual one for Martha. On one hand, she remembered being waited on hand and foot. The weekly beauty treatments were amongst the things she recalled with fondness and more than a little longing. And yet, the last decade and a half, the chemical peels became less important. You couldn't hide a Chelsea grin with fillers.

That was one of the first things Thomas took care of.

A doctor who'd lost his license due to malpractice was hired to perform the reconstructive surgery. He was the same one who'd restored Harvey's face, following that terrible accident when he had been a junior partner at a law firm.

The doctor was told that he was repairing the face of a victim.

He then ordered for the doctor to be killed.

Thomas couldn't risk the man going to the tabloids for a pay day. It was precarious enough that Oswald knew the real reason why Batman couldn't kill the Joker.

Thomas knew that timing was everything. Martha being reintroduced back into society required a number of carefully-spaced, precisely-timed appearances. He had hired a staff of personal shoppers, an aesthetician and a personal assistant. They helped to slowly ease Martha back into the public spotlight.

Thomas told them that Martha had become a recluse after her son's tragic death; that she had developed serious agoraphobia and nowadays preferred the company of books. He also made vague reference to Martha's weekly bridge meetings with unspecified "members of her former college sorority."

"Actually, Pam was quite good at Solitaire," Martha mused, between sips of Lapsang Souchong. That was until you killed her, of course. I was always more a Diplomat type." She smiled and put down her cup. Thomas noticed the slight tremble of her hand.

At first, the reappearances were sparse, low-key. A small art gallery opening, a birthday celebration of a close friend. Thomas was selective, and made sure that those who knew only knew what they had to. Anything else was unprovable, pure speculation. Thomas would see to it that the less-palatable parts of Martha's history would never escape the realms of conspiracy theory.

"Thomas, look at these invitations!" she exclaimed, pointing at the rows of emails in her inbox from various news agencies and magazines around the world. All of them wanted interviews. "I know," Thomas stated simply. "You have to be careful which ones you respond to. Right now, it's all a cash grab, and you have to stay quiet."

Martha looked up at him. "But couldn't I just give one small interview to dispel some of these questions? We don't want to fuel speculation."

He hated that word. He had already received some from Oswald. Apparently, one of the blackjack dealers overheard a players making small talk and Thomas was mentioned. They were discussing his wife and the possible Joker connection.

"Hey man, ya think the Lady Wayne shacked up with the Joker? Man, if that happened to me I woulda gone crazy, you know what I'm sayin?"

"I dunno man, I heard some wild rumors that she was the Joker. Can you believe that, man?"

"What, Lady Do-Gooder? Nah. She's the type who'd pass out if she got blood on those swanky threads of hers."

"Hey, anything's possible in this city. Nobody's seen her in years..."

"Hey c'mon man, cut the lady some slack. She lost her kid and she's been afraid to go out ever since. 'Specially at night, when the Joker operated. Still reckon she's the clown? I don't think so."

This tidbit was relayed to Oswald, who in turn told Thomas who dealt with the loose lips personally. Online references were scrubbed clean. If he did anything too drastic, it would look obvious. Seedy online publications made some postings but thankfully, the public was too enthralled her return and beauty to give it serious thought. They were bottom feeders. Conspiracy theorists who spent too much time online and not enough in the real world to be taken seriously. Fortunately, it seemed as though any believers of such tales were taken as seriously as those who believed in aliens. At least the ones he knew that were not real.

She was seen as the 'First Lady' of Gotham and for her to be associated with 'a monster' was seen as preposterous. Her history as a Kane outweighed any of those ridiculous 'accusations'.

Martha had a small but growing fan base. She was a celebrity coming out of seclusion. She was likened to a rare and exotic animal that had made an appearance after so long. In this case, their feigning ignorance saved her. Thomas careful not to make her reappearance seem to close to Joker's 'death'. Fortunately, the fickle audience and their short attention spans saw to that. One of her earliest sightings was at a theater to see a performance. Her dress was the talk and toast of the town. She felt welcome again.

But even the best surgery could not fix all the wounds.

Thomas knew that there was a way to reduce these whispers from baseless accusations to urban legends. He knew the right person who would be able to create web pages. It would not be easy to ask her, but he would do it. He would hire troll farms if he had to. Anything that would counter the suggestions.

That was when Julia introduced him to Buttercup.

"Hey, Mistah Wayne! You gotta check this out!" Buttercup was hired by Thomas because of her street smarts. She came from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. She was African American and a fan of anime, was savvy on social networking and was one of the most talented online sleuths he had ever met. Her non nonsense style made Martha feel protected. She was a tough girl with a heart of gold. She was perfect. She was highly recommended by Selina.

"What is it?" He asked. Buttercup then showed him her phone. It was an image of the Joker. Thomas asked her what was wrong. She told him to wait. The image had changed from the Joker into Martha. The poster had received several upvotes. Many of the subsequent comments had images of faces smiling with tears coming out of their eyes.

"Oh my God," Martha gasped.

"So it's like this, Boss. I got all my alerts set up and then I get a tip. It leads me to this forum called 'The Powder Room'. It's mainly celebrity gossip with the occasional political discussion tossed it. Anyway, someone created an off topic discussion about the Mrs. W and You Know Who under another topic. I wouldn't worry too much about it because people post stupid crap all the time for shits 'n giggles. Shoot, sometimes I go that place after a hard day of school, coming here, helping the Missus."

"Oh, Thomas. Why would they do such a thing?"

"Just ignore it. If you pay attention to it, it will only fuel the fire."

"Couldn't you just scrub it off? Isn't that some people do when they don't want searches about them linking them to things? Couldn't you make a personal visit to this hack?"

"It would look too suspicious. They only we do now is for you to slowly ease your way back into society. That is more important than a trash blog."

"Oh, Thomas…."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Wayne. I know some of the posters. I can make some counter claims. All I have to do is create some dummy accounts and mess with the IP. After some manipulations, some carefully worded arguments and some shaming language, we should be good."

"Thank you, dear." Martha sighed.

"Hey, it's the least I could do. This will be a piece of cherry cheesecake!"

Buttercup reminded Martha of Yo-Yo. She was fiercely loyal and they both looked adorable in yellow. She was the fresh boost of confidence that she needed whenever she felt unsure.

She didn't deny her past but she did not want to be defined by it. The last decade was a blur. It was a depression. She couldn't be held accountable, could she? She was in a 'catatonic state'. She wasn't responsible, was sh-No, no. That was that evil imp talking. SHE did bad things. She knew that what she did was wrong. To deny and bury would be as if she was not taking control of her life. Her image came from her actions, her actions came from her words, her words came from herself, her spirit. She made those choices. She had to acknowledge them and she did. Perhaps it was not in the court of public opinion and it was not as if they were demanding an explanation. That was a good enough explanation, certainly.

Though she had made the necessary steps in an external manner, she still _grappled_ with some of her actions. Though she knew that what she did was unforgivable, she was still culpable for her crimes. She never denied that. She could not use 'mood swings' as an excuse the way 'normies' would.

She once dressed up an officer in a bat costume. She strangled him before sending his body crashing into the window of a meeting Thomas had. She sent him a message. "Bastard" was one of her favorite expressions for him.

She shot a young woman in the spine. She had seen her often as Wayne related functions. It did not matter that she had a scholarship from a school in Silicon Valley. She had to be tossed, like a _cat_ in a bag into the ocean.

She started going after children of prominent members of Gotham society.

But that wasn't HER, that was…..the Clown. It was the Demon from her psyche. It was revenge personified.

She took her 'social obligations' like duck to water. A few months after the incident at the old Wayne mansion, Thomas made a calculated decision to have their first 'official' appearance together at the premiere of the new Robinson theater. The posters that featured the evenings shows were done in Grau style. They arrived only to be greeted by a throng of press. Everyone from the morning telecasts waiting for content to hot new writers of popular journals were there trying to get a few words from visitors. Thomas and Martha's appearance would provide content for weeks. Martha kept behind her husband.

"Well, Hello Beautiful…."

"What will you be doing now?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Where did you get that dress?"

"We are just here to enjoy some art," Thomas responded candidly. He looked sharp in an evening suit and red tie. She wore a chiffon purple gown by Isis De La Cruz.

"What have you been doing all this time?"

"Is it true that you shacked up with the Joker? What was that like?"

Martha placed a hand on her husband's broad shoulder. The other journalists piled on top of one another, drowning out the bottom feeder. She was from that popular tabloid news show 'UnEx: Unmasked Exposed'. She remembered only because she saw Yo-Yo watching it just in case they would make an appearance. This particular "journalist" was one of the more well-known 'regulars' on UnEx. She was known for having a distinctive 'look' on the show. She was also one of the more obnoxious tabloid reporters on the show, always asking her target soft but invasive questions. Joker once promised Yo-Yo that if she ever met this one, she would give her a third eye.

"Please, not tonight. We were invited by a friend."

As they walked into the theater, Martha looked back at the worm who asked the last question. A small part of her was tempted to tell her 'Darling, with those awful blackheads and that color jacket, you look like a rotten papaya.'

The papers reported that they had watched _The Scarlet Pimpernel_. A few days later they returned to see _The Phantom of the Opera_ because an actor friend of the Waynes was in it. The gossip columnists noted that they skipped _Zorro_.

It was a close call. For two weeks, Martha's appearance dominated the chat show circuit. She was beloved. She was a symbol of grace and class. She had received offers to appear on the covers of _Gotham Glamour_ and _Madame Noir_. She had an interview with the latter. It was one of the most widely circulated and in demand issues of the publications. She slowly became a household name again.

The tweens had Roxy Rocket. She was for the girls with a peculiar sense of expression and theatrics.

The college aged girls had Lois Lane. She was well known for her fierce hair and her knack for interviewing subjects while dealing with monsters or on another planet.

Martha was for the modern, cosmopolitan woman with a wicked sense of humor. She would not say no to a cashmere sweater but she put her money where her mouth was when it came to helping to fund undermanaged schools in poor neighborhoods.

The image makeover was going perfectly.

He was content. But it was only temporary, like the breeze of a cool wind on a parched desert. It was welcoming, refreshing but fleeting.

In a way, he did not want this to end.

Thomas wanted to indulge and enjoy more of her before taking care of some things with the Flash.

 _Bastard._

Thank you for reading. Buttercup is based on a real life friend


	3. Chapter 3: Jezebel

Title: Never Let Me Down Again

Chapter III: Jezebel

Synopsis: A retelling of 'Batman: Knight of Vengeance'. What if Martha had lived and how does she adjust back into 'normal' life?

* * *

Thomas had seen that Martha needed some sort of distraction. She had been in and out of the Asylum for so many years and her assortment of 'friends' she once had had gone underground, found another network, or were dead. She needed companionship and that was when Thomas had an idea. Martha preferred the company of the entourage Thomas had hired for her. They were four women from various backgrounds who would heed her beck and call. They were young and very talented. They didn't ask too many questions and when they talked, they were genuinely interested in what she had to say. First, there was Buttercup and then there was Iris, her skin care consultant who was the eldest. She was 'around' thirty and was closest to Martha when it came to understanding treatment. "Your pores are practically nonexistent and you don't really have any lines but it never hurts to try green tea. What is your secret?"

'I stayed out of the sun and lived in sewers', she was tempted to say.

"I stayed out of the sun and lived in salons," she said to quell the silence. Vanity was her middle name.

Lucy was her make-up artist and Shannan was her image specialist. Lucy was not only an artist on paper but she was an expert on how to contour. She was also a master with the eye line marker pen. She had so many wonderful ideas. Shannan was her buffer when it came to interviews and publicity. She was said to be one of the most aggressive publicists in the business. Buttercup was her image and wardrobe expert.

It was Lucy who suggested that they go to _Jezebel's Boudoir_ , a top of the line cosmetics store in the heart of Gotham's shopping district. Lucy was familiar with her make-up preferences but she figured it was time to try new things and maybe to get out of the new house they were living in. Martha was keen on these plans as she wanted to try something new. She did admit that she felt powerful donning her old urban war paint. She remembered seeing her face on bill boards and magazine pictorials. A 'highlight' from her 'old career' was landing an interview for _GQ._ It was one of the highest selling issues as thousands wanted to read the opinions about the woman on the cover. No one could get a straight answer as to who she was but she gave the world a new term that would enter lexicon, 'One bad day.' Her makeup for the cover was carefully applied. She looked like a cover model for a death metal album; strangely alluring but very dangerous.

But that was a long time ago. It was time to wash away her sins.

The store entry overwhelmed her senses.

Once inside, she saw right lights, mirrors, a monochrome accent and the most vibrant collection of beauty tools overwhelmed her senses. It was like revisiting an old treasure trove. It was the most beautiful assortment of beauty supplies she had ever seen. In her 'old life', she relied on Max Factor for white face 'foundation' and her favorite shade of crimson for effect. Kohl eyeliner was used to enhance the eyes. It was a basic routine but it made a powerful statement. It was her personal 'war paint' but now it was time for something new.

"I think this color would look great on you."

It was a bright red color. Martha's eyes widened.

"What is it?"

Lucy looked at the tube of lipstick.

"It's by Veronica Dean and it is called 'Blood of Christ'." Lucy said simply.

Blood.

Red.

The words triggered her. To be fair it was a beautiful color but it was not one she wanted to be associated with. She did not want that color on her face anymore.

"Let's try something subtler. How about that mocha colored one?"

"That's pretty, let's try it. _Matte nineteen ninety-three_ ".

For her troubles, Martha let Lucy choose some items for personal use on her card. She was such a talent with the black marker around the eyes and her creative eye shadow designs were striking but they were more fitting for a twenty-five-year-old intern at a fashion show back stage than a mature woman. Martha chose more subdued tones. Years of the same make-up routine would have some effect on the skin around the eyes. Lucy recommended a corrector for that. Cucumbers were good too. She had seen the crow's feet on some of the female staff members who worked the late shift. Martha did not want that to happen to her.

Martha also found out that she loved peachy and plum tones for the eyes and lips.

After they paid for their items, they had lunch at one of the local boulangeries. Lucy had a craving for pink macarons. Not only did it serve traditional Parisian fare, but they also had sandwiches and iced tea. Lucy had a sweet crepe while Martha opted for a leek soup.

"I had a friend who would make escargot from scratch." Martha mused between sips of her soup.

"She sounds neat!"

"She was. She grew thyme and parsley at the as-from her home and would bring it to the Midnight Mission. Everyone loved it. She was a green thumb but she died."

Pam grew spices as community service.

"What happened to her?"

Thomas broke her neck.

She-she fell from her ladder while trying to reach for some peaches. It was a real shame. Her cobbler was popular." Martha said casually.

They began to walk away when a woman with two large double buns and a bright yellow coat walked into them.

"Ooopsie, sorry!" she said in a high pitched voice. In a split second, boxes and shopping bags fell on the pavement. Martha noted the familiarity in that voice.

"I didn't see you, I am very sorry," she replied gently and knelt down.

They were sorting their items between them. The woman was carrying a large assortment for there were boxes and bags of clothes and shoes everywhere. There were some items with cute animals printed on them.

"I'm sorry. I am just so out of it ever since my boss died." The woman squealed.

"That's awful!" Lucy cried.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Martha said gently. She handed a bag and box to the woman. In it were a pair of bright pink furry boots. Martha noted the odd choice for footwear because it was the middle of June. The woman was very stylish and like Lucy was fond of bright colors and strong patterns. Under the yellow overcoat, she wore a blue and white striped shirt, denim cut-off shorts and suede brown boots. She also had two toned half dipped bright yellow hair. One side was pink while the other was blue. Shannan would call this look 'Urban trash'.

"Thanks. She really got me and I was like her part time therapist. We got _really_ close. That's why I've been doing retail therapy!" The woman smiled. "Hey, ya know where they have really good philly cheesesteaks? All this shopping is making me hungry!"

"I um…." Martha began.

"Oh, look! A candy store! And look, some of them look like swirly yo-yos!"

Yo-yo.

It was Yo-Yo.

Martha kept quiet. She and Lucy watched Yo-Yo struggle with her bags and boxes as she made her way to the candy shop.

Martha wasn't sure how to process this. On one hand, Yo-Yo seemed to have moved on which in a small sense hurt. Yo-Yo was her most trusted confidant. After her lavish life, Yo-Yo became someone she could depend on. She was like Thomas in that she was loyal. She was also like a surrogate daughter after Bruce. What made Yo-Yo fascinating was how that no one could predict her mood. It was hard to tell with her sunny disposition what she was really feeling. Yo-Yo had a talent for making Martha laugh again. Her voice was sweet and her mouth had a knack for making some crass but hilarious comments.

Martha began to blush when she started to remember how talented Yo-Yo's tongue was. She began to feel a rush between her thighs. It was an indiscretion that she kept from Thomas.

"You okay, Mrs. J?" Lucy asked which broke Martha out of her trance.

"Um, excuse me?" Martha asked, snapping out of her trance.

"You okay, Mrs. W?" Lucy repeated. She noted that Lucy and Yo-Yo both had the same shade of hair save for Yo-Yo's highlights.

"Oh, nothing. I was just admiring that young woman's….free spirit," Martha sighed.

* * *

 _Author's note: If you are reading this, thank you. I wanted to do something based on this story. This project is the second out of three Batman/Joker stories I have planned. At the time of this writing, NLMDA will have a few more chapters. It turned out to be bigger than I originally anticipated! It's also one of my most difficult and challenging stories and I hope you have as much fun reading it. I intend to post the fourth chapter after next week. I will be in Las Vegas for a vacation this weekend so no update then. I also have some happy news in my personal life. I am moving forward and plan on getting my credential. That means more money which means I can buy more comics. I am also planning on taking some art classes at the end of the month so updating will be a little more spaced out because of this. Rest assured I have a few more chappies written down. I just need to tweak them before posting. That I need my beta but she is hot for Stucky now. Thank you. TBCC_.


	4. Chapter 4: Elizabeth Bathory

**Title: Paint it Black**

 **Chapter IV: Elizabeth Bathory**

 **Summary: Martha rejoins Gotham's high society. Celebrity and notoriety were not foreign words to her, but when 'Gotham Glamour' meets 'Trendy City Style', is it only a matter of time before a festive feast turns into a deadly dinner?**

 **Written by The Black Cat Crossing. Beta'd by Miss Jo.**

* * *

Gotham's Cultural Arts Center was having a charity ball the following Saturday. Not only did they serve as benefits for the less than fortunate, they were also opportunities for the more privileged of Gotham to network. Writers and artists hooked up to organize events. They would set up engaging challenges that would appeal to all. One year there had been a twenty-four hour 'Make Your Own Story' contest at the local book store. Martha provided refreshments and cookies for the children. Their little smiles and laughter reminded her of happier times. It was as if she was finally moving on from the tragedy and subsequent history that tethered her to such dark memories.

Martha remembered how fond she had been of the galas. She hoped that the directors, actors and artists she admired would be there. It had been so long since she dressed to the nines. She chose a green ensemble that complimented her eyes. Lucy touched her face up with blush and the perfect shade of rouge.

"Hello, Beautiful," her assistants marveled.

She and Thomas walked along the corridors, the main hall and finally the grand piazza. She looked for certain faces, noting to herself that over a decade could do so much (or so little, depending on the surgeon) to a person's appearance. Thomas had told her that Leslie Thompkins was on a 'Doctors without Borders' assignment in Asia and Dr. Kirk Langstrom was studying bats in South America. There were few familiar faces, aside from a handful of maids, cooks, and butlers.

"Thomas, I feel so out of place." She shuffled closer to her husband and wrapped a hand tightly around his.

"Just play along," he warned her gently. "If there is anyone you need to know about, I'll fill you in."

Her jaw clenched. "Please stop talking to me as if I were a child."

Thomas frowned. "Try not to deviate from the script as we originally agreed. Okay?"

The _script_ was that she had been diagnosed with depression following Bruce's murder and had been confined to bed rest until she was ready to re-emerge into the public eye. But that wasn't the only thing that bothered her. It was the last word Thomas said.

 _Okay._

It was a declaration, an order.

It was a command that a dog owner would use.

 _Okay_.

It was a word she had come to loathe; a term that the white coats would use on her. It was a word she was 'supposed' to apply to get her to move from one stage of grief to the next. To get _her_ to do what _they_ wanted was offensive. It was like asking someone to forget they had an amputation. It was like asking a paraplegic person to walk on command. Asking her to do her part in these 'tasks' only made her angrier. Her outbursts at the doctors became part of safety protocol for new staff members.

"I don't want another event like the one with the gardener." Thomas glanced around, betraying a slight anxiety.

"You never told me you hired one," she countered, blushing slightly.

"Now you know that you shouldn't walk around with nothing but a towel over your head." Thomas' voice was light, teasing. His smile returned. Martha looked away, feeling the pinch of embarrassment. She was still adjusting to this new life.

Thomas made his introductions before getting down with business. There was a conference in Washington next Thursday, followed by another in South Africa two weeks later. A research student at Gotham University was said to have discovered the _something or other._ Paparazzi cameras flashed like beating wings in a dark pit, causing Martha to flinch. Others were more welcoming. They walked towards the light, joyful and preening, swishes of red chiffon and black velvet, trailing expensive scent. Thomas, meanwhile, made his usual small talk as her reclaimed celebrity hit her with full force. It was like putting on a pair of heels that no longer fit. Many of the new faces Martha encountered tonight were different.

There were a few she recalled from the gossip magazines Yo-Yo would read and leave on the floor after she was done with them. She liked taking those silly personality quizzes. She would also look at them to see what was the latest trend in handbags. She was quite fond of anything pink and fuzzy. YoYo was fond of that pop singer who used cupcakes and lollipops in her dance routines. For awhile, she wore nothing but white high waisted shorts and a pink crop top. She was the only source of color in her life in those days. She was her beacon of sunshine. Other young women tried to pull off the casual 'Too cool to care' vibe but ended up looking disheveled. They tried going for 'Casual luxury' but ended up looking more 'Trailer trash'. .

Martha only looked into those magazines to see if there was any reference to Thomas or herself. Her name was relegated to 'private recluse,' with the word 'tragic' not too far away. He'd protected her, even when she fantasized about having him choke on his own intestines. She temporarily recalled an issue of Gotham Weekly that had a reference to a charity event. He was there with his intern Selina. Martha flinched. Not tonight.

She noted the large number of new faces. Many of them were young, almost too young.

One of these new faces was the media darling and hot new actress, Clair De Lune. All eyes were focused on her as she retold an event that involved one of her fans and from the look of it, she wasn't portraying the star-struck individual in a positive light. She stood out among a group of young women, similarly preened and primped. The vocal fry, giggling and selfie-taking gave the game away. They were acting more like a bunch of teenagers at a prom than a bunch of young women at a respectable event, not really caring that their behavior would have an impact on their public profiles the next day. Overdocumentation had replaced mystique. Things had certainly changed.

"Oh my God, did you see her dress?"

"She is totally shading you!"

"Chartreuz, can you get your assistant to take a pic?"

It amazed Martha at how quickly news would spread at private galas. She considered herself fortunate to have had "her" moment before the ascendency of social media, back when indiscretions were quietly swept under the rug in return for cash or the promise of an exclusive interview. Pinot Noir flowed like water. The girls laughed at the smallest things. It was almost difficult to tell them all apart, as if they were clones of each other, varying only in terms of hair colour and skin tone.

There was only one girl who stood out.

"Pandora! When is your new album coming up?" A pap shouted to one of the young women huddled around Clair. Pandora's image was part vamp, part seventies rock goddess. She looked more subdued and 'mature' compared to her more colorful and loud peers. She was terrifyingly silent, exuding a chameleon-like aura which contrasted greatly with Clair's sickly pink and silver glitter allure. She had black hair that whipped around like wires, and wore a dress that seemed molded to her body like glistening dark liquid. Her lips were painted a striking mauve. She stood out like a deep purple amethyst amongst a crown of plastic jewelry.

"The third of September, a date you will remember," she purred. Her 'friends' gathered around her and oohed as if she had made some sort of divine revelation.

What Martha saw here were a bunch of drunk young women who cared more about social capital and publicity than friendship. They collected peers as affirmation of their status the way children collected trading cards or comics. It was a strange form of objectification.

For a few seconds, Martha remembered the girls she used to play tennis with at Gotham University. The pictures she had of her team bespoke an image of camaraderie and friendship. Even the few friendships she'd had at the Asylum were solid in comparison. Although she was kept in a more secluded cell, she would occasionally interact with the others. She discussed Carol Anne Duffy and carnal politics with Pam. She would debate and discuss the best methods of intimidation and control with Dr. Crane. He preferred gas and the power of suggestion; she preferred the element of surprise. Now they were all gone, most of them at Thomas's hands.

"Excuse me," Martha said in a hushed tone. She saw a large group gathering towards them. She wanted Thomas to handle them. He was better at handling diplomacy than she was. She had no patience for idle chatter. Even Croc had been a better conversationalist.

Martha sampled the buffet while Thomas discussed business and medical breakthroughs. There were cuts of roast beef and corn fed chicken, assorted sushi, mini baked potatoes with caviar and sour cream, cheeses and fruit platters arranged to look like star-shaped flowers. She helped herself to some salad and smoked salmon. She was looking at the dessert stand when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Mrs. Wayne, we were wondering if we could get a picture of you for our site!" Martha could not help but look at the bright pink hair. It was a journalist for some clickbait site. She brushed it off and assumed it was just part of the style the 'trendy' members of these new young members of the press used. It wasn't her thing and she knew it wasn't in her place to comment on other people's personal fashion choices. Her taste was more subdued but refined. She was minimalist but polished in her choice for attire. _Less is more_. She preferred Victorian broaches and Byzantine chain bracelets with fold over claps. Having a tattoo of Odin's Cross on one 's neck was not exactly tactful especially in a metropolitan city with a variety of people living there. There was personal expression and then there was crassness masquerading as 'daring'. It looked so tacky.

"Yes, you may," she said graciously. _What the hell_. She loved the attention when it was appropriate. It was a part of the _old persona_ that did not leave her.

"I must say, you are workin' that dress."

"Thank you," Martha replied.

"Can I ask; who are you wearing?"

"I, uh, excuse me?"

"Who are you wearing? Our readers like to know every detail about the fashion choices of our top tens and you, Beautiful, are _killing it._ "

"I, uh, a friend personally designed it." Martha said quickly. The family tailor had passed away a few years back, and now the business was in the hands of their daughter who made a living making costumes for movies and the fashion industry.

"Is that satin or taffeta?"

"I believe it is satin," Martha said crisply.

As a girl and as a young woman, Martha had indulged in fashion, but the extent that the media went on asking about every single cut of texture was intrusive to say the least. It was quite ironic that they asked her about that at an event that would benefit childhood hunger. She recalled a coffee table book from when she was younger, featuring photographs of various celebrities and socialites in post-party disarray, languishing in a kind of blurred and disheveled glamor. Champagne glitter and half-peeled-off lashes weighted down tired and shadowed eyes; there were rumpled silk sheets and toppled wine glasses; the contents of complimentary gift bags lay scattered across plush carpets. Proceeds from the book supposedly went to alleviate world hunger, yet the book struck Martha as disingenuously boastful of beautiful lives and therefore, in bad taste.

It was amusing in a way. Amusing as in very stupid and self-serving.

"What do you think about the beef between French Barbi and Red Twosdae?"

"I am sorry, I am afraid I don't understand." Martha had no idea what on Earth he was talking about. For a second, she wondered if he was asking her about the names of two cocktails. Their names sounded like they would be the kind that would be served at some trashy dive in the East End.

"Oooooooh, that was an epic slam!" His assistant, a young lady whose entire upper body seemed to be splotched with red ink, laughed.

She spoke perfect English but she had no idea what they were saying. Slang did change, but the crass sarcasm and conversation within a conversation was just rude.

As a Kane, she had been well-schooled in the finer arts of communication and deportment. As Joker, she had no qualms expressing her intense displeasure towards anyone, often using lethal force to make her point. She was never shy in expressing her opinions. She despised it when her henchmen would communicate with hushed voices. She hated it when the doctors and guards would speak _about_ her - not _to_ her - even when she was in the same room. She could tell by the shushed tones and by the way they would take quick glances at her. It was if she was reliving this all over again. She had no time for such foolish behavior.

"Mrs. Wayne, who are you rooting for at the boxing match tomorrow?"

"What about those pumps? Are those _by Jessica_?"

 _Yes, they are, and I will use them to kick you in the nuts if you don't stop asking me such idle questions!_

"Excuse me," she said, and made her way to the ladies' room.

The powder room had beautiful French countryside furniture, polished marble and slate floors. It looked like a secretive grotto. For Martha, it was a peaceful sanctuary. She needed a break from the small but intrusive talk and the mindless chatter. She also needed a drink.

The door opened just as she was applying her lipstick. She glanced out of the corner of her eye. A figure with a tight bun on her head walked in.

"Sorry, didn't know this was occupied…." A girl lumbered in, slurring. It was Clair.

Martha nodded gently. She didn't want to engage in an exchange of words. She took out her powder compact and a small brush.

"Hey, so um, everyone filled me in. You are Mrs. Wayne. Gosh, it's _so good_ to meet you. My mom's always raving about your style."

As if she wasn't aware of the twenty plus year difference between the two of them. "Thank you," Martha said, looking at the girl through the mirror. Truth be told, she was very visually striking. The girl was about twenty and dressed in a jade evening gown. She wasn't much older than Selina Kyle when Thomas had hired her to be a member of the Junior Tech Crew at the Wayne Labs. She even did her eyeliner a similar way; that up-swept, feline flick in the outer corners. Martha felt herself begin to seethe.

 _Not now. Not yet. Image._

"Can I just say that I love your style?"

Martha smelled cognac on her breath. Her emerald green gown was bold compared to the girl's, something that made her strangely, if peevishly, proud. YoYo would have called it 'baby poop green'.

"Thank you," Martha said firmly. She wanted to be left alone so she could people-watch. She had no desire to make small talk with someone who was too young to know the difference between an evening gown and a cocktail dress.

"And you are like….so hot….like, you could be my mom but I would so do you…."

Martha smiled tightly. It was obvious why Clair de Lune appealed to immature girl children; she epitomized gracelessness and obnoxiousness masquerading as 'quirky.' Young girls liked her because she mirrored their own obnoxiousness while providing the perfect cover to shield it from scrutiny. Lucy and Buttercup had told her that she was someone who was popular with the young crowd because of her so called humble beginnings and her rags to riches tale. That was the official PR line. They were also the first ones to tell her that her origins were a fiction and that she'd done some unsavory favors in order to to get ahead. From what she had heard from 'her girls' was that actress had come from the middle of nowhere and sold her soul to Hollywood.

There were rumors that Clair had wealthy parents who'd had dreams; who were willing to pimp her out to executives if it meant making it to the top. They created the sassy, down-to-earth narrative to make her relatable to the teen market. Eventually, she struck gold with a dystopian teen franchise and had never looked back.

"Yeah, ever since I can remember. She would always go to the local tailor to get her dresses made like yours. Her favorite one was this purple one you wore at a charity ball."

Martha knew exactly which one. It was sometime during the halcyon days, and had been designated Dress of the Year by Harpers Bazaar. Liz Hurley had had that black safety pin dress; Marilyn had that shocking pink raiment by William Travilla; Martha had her asymmetrical violet silk gown. Purple was always her favorite color. It was the color of royalty, after all.

"She has good taste," Martha said silkily. She looked in the mirror to reapply her mascara. She didn't want to admit it, but the girl's youthful features in the mirror stood in contrast to her own more seasoned looks. The girl only had to use moisturizer, drink water and stay out of the sun to stay that way. Martha's regiment included a complex ritual of creams and toners. There were also biweekly visits to the dermatologist and occasionally, the Botox clinic. He had not detected any hint of her old scars, but he did emphasize that she take care of her skin with a pomegranate extract and lots of water. To be fair, he did say that she had great skin thanks in part to Iris's brilliant hands.

"Yeah, it was pretty much because of you that she enrolled me into acting school."

Ah, finally a confession. She was like a fan or a groupie meeting their idol. Martha thought it was sort of cute. She carefully applied lipstick, half remembering the shade that Pam used. She wished that she had brought it to 'show' the girl _. This shade of jungle green would look brilliant on you!_

"She wanted me to either learn to play the banjo and upload it online or something. Anything to get us out of the boonies."

"I see," Martha said icily.

"I think of the boonies as a place for old people," the girl went on, oblivious. "Ugly old people who live on white bread, cheese whizz and Okie music." Obnoxious and superficial. If only her adoring masses – some of whom lived in "the boonies," no doubt - could see her now!

"Oh, but the countryside does have its benefits," Martha replied. "Cottages and lodges are ideal. The wilderness is the perfect place when you want to escape city life. It's very quiet there."

 _It's also so quiet that no one will be able to hear you when I cut your trachea into two, you little slag!_

"Yeah, I was thinking about going camping, maybe somewhere in Montana…" Clair was slurring her words.

"I hear from my assistants that Indian Reservations are the best for a more ... _authentic_ experience." _Less government intervention and more dangerous wildlife like wolves and Grizzlies. Maybe I will give you a private tour._

"Hey, maybe I can try some peyote…" she smiled.

 _Montana is nowhere near Southwestern Texas, you imbecile!_

"Oh, you don't want to offend the hosts," Martha said obsequiously. The girl might have been a social media maven, but when it came to human interaction, she was very clumsy. The Danzante Pinot Grigio and a few other things had done a number on her, and the truth came tumbling out.

"Maybe I can meet a cute Indian guide. I need a break. Will it count as cheating? I am with this guy, well, he's not really my guy. We signed a contract. It would help our images, but I don't want to rock the boat. Do you think he will mind? I'm sure he was with that Brit actress from those spy movies…"

 _You're an_ _ **actress,**_ _complaining about another role you have to play. My heart, it bleeds._

Martha saw that it was adorable in a way. The girl was clearly a puppet for her parents and the production company. At the same time, she was complaining in such a way that the complaints felt self-indulgent. It was laughable. Martha smiled. She knew a thing or two about indiscretions.

"Put it this way, dear," Martha smiled, and the girl flinched just a touch. "Every woman is entitled to her secrets. Secrets, like memories, can be repulsive little brutes when you don't know how to use them. Think of them like cards." A small smile began to form.

She was in no position to give the girl advice on moral scruples. At the same time, she was not about to show her full hand.

"Yeah, I think so too! Why should women be judged for the choices that they make? Guys get away with it all the time and no one says anything. Why are women expected to be perfect? Why aren't women allowed to have secrets, even if they are a bit dirty? A guy actor can have a drug record and come back a big movie star but a woman can't have a past? Aren't women allowed to have multiple pasts?"

 _Multiple past. Multiple choice_.

It took her back to a certain time in her life.

A part that she did not want to relive in this moment. Martha's thought processes were broken when she heard a loud belch. Martha wanted to know who was the idiot who gave this girl a deal with Dior.

"People always reinvent their histories to make themselves more palatable for the public, dear. It makes them more exciting, more relatable. It depends on your audience."

"Yeah, maybe I embellished my past a little, but I had to practice like everyone else and there's nothing wrong with a woman having a past. Look at Marilyn! Now people don't really care if someone had a boob job or a nip tuck. Don't you agree with that?"

She could feel her blood boil. The girl was clearly out of her gourd, so her comment about nips and tucks were not personal, but drink did make the mouth flap faster than the brain could put a brake on it.

On top of that, she was complaining about her own self-created gilded cage. She was spinning a tale of tragedy when this girl knew nothing about being disenfranchised.

After being cut off from the Wayne estate, she'd had to rely on her own wiles in order to eat. Save for the soup, the food at Arkham was terrible. Still, Thomas always came through for her in his own way. She still remembers how he would make sure that she would have a dessert every Friday with her dinner when she was locked up; that she was served her favorite eggs Benedict on Saturday mornings. On the outside, it was a different story; scavenging discarded pizza from the back of restaurants, stealing bags of potato chips and dried noodles. Eating every couple of days became the norm for her, but she didn't care. Her mind was so detached she no longer felt hunger or pain. At least it kept her weight down. She knew which fruits had the right nutrients as she no longer had access to her treatments.

This girl's definition of 'oppression' was having regular milk instead of soy. She was the type who'd throw a temper tantrum if her parents bought her ice cream on a sugar cone instead of a waffle one. It was ridiculous.

"Sweetheart, if you want to be a comedian, I suggest you watch some Lenny Bruce or even some Cantinflas," she purred silkily.

"Who's that?" Clair slurred. Martha snapped her powder compact shut and made to walk away. The bathroom attendant moved forward with her stole. Martha held up her hand and shook her head.

"Hey, before you go, you gotta tell me your secret. How do you stay so hot?"

"I bathe in virgin's blood." Martha spat over her shoulder.

"Ha! Oh my God, you are so funny! You are a total joker!"

Martha felt her heart race. True, the girl made no connection but the mere association with that part of her past made her weary. She could feel her muscles clench because of the rage.

"Hey, I wanna show you something. One of the members of my Girl Crew showed it to me. It's really funny!"

After a few taps on her mobile device, Clair aimed the screen at Martha who let out a small gasp.

It was the animated GIF that Buttercup had showed her the other day. She wanted to think it was a terrible prank. She wanted to be gracious about it. After all, it was just a silly image that someone had manipulated at her expense. Martha wanted to walk out and ignore it while maintaining her dignity.

The Joker, however, was thinking of the many ways she would kill this glorified flatulent strumpet. She could push her head down the toilet and drown her. She could break the vase in the corner and run a shard across her neck. _No. No._ That wasn't who she was anymore. This was only a trigger.

With the help of a home therapist, Martha had worked on processing her grief and the effects it had had on her thinking, including her white-hot anger. The change was notable with Thomas. She went from trying to kill him with a needle to being very passionate during their intimate times together.

 _Not now._ She thought about how she could concoct a poison from the cleaning fluids that had to be around somewhere; how she could get it into the girl's drink before the door opened.

"Clair! There you are! The Gotham Post wants to ask you something! They're outside by the Pavilion!"

"Can't I get a photo op of us? Hey, do you have a handle? How do I tag you?"

"Elizabeth Bathory," Martha said as she walked out. Clair's assistant gazed on.

"Didn't I tell you she was _funny?"_

* * *

"I see you made a new friend," Thomas said. Martha moved closer and melted into him. She needed familiarity right now to steady her thoughts. His sheer size was like a protective envelope; the scent of _Bois du Portugal,_ his favored cologne, comforted her.

"She's awful," Martha hissed.

"I'm not in charge of who is invited at the Arts Center." Thomas said stoically, stroking her hair. "I trust Se … people to keep me posted on trends."

"Since when has crassness been considered funny?" Martha hissed.

"I don't think I'm the right person to answer that."

"Who let her in?" Martha didn't recognize a large portion of those invited. Save for a couple of actor acquaintances and a playwright who was engaged in a discussion with some theater group, she felt like a fish out of water.

"The promoters should know. I can tell you that her presence will bring awareness to any causes. She just needs to mention it."

"So she has influence?" Martha observed.

"Over seven million followers on her social media page." Thomas said in an unattached tone.

There were a few things Martha could not tolerate. Rude manners were one of them. As a Kane, then as a Wayne, she had a short fuse when it came to gauche behavior. Of course, as Joker, her sense of propriety had mostly unraveled, but she still had her moments. She'd once berated a henchman for leaving a half-empty bottle in their hideout. It wasn't so much for cleanliness but the fact that she didn't want the Bat or the cops tracking her down via the DNA of her hired muscle. She screamed at him before making an example of out of him.

They left the gala approximately one hour later. They swept down the vast library steps into the cool night air. Martha wrapped her stole tightly around herself, Thomas giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, a soft, restrained gesture from a hand which, in certain contexts, was capable of breaking bones. Reporters gathered just outside of the terrace. Bored and wanting to be at home in bed with a book, she stood beside Thomas, who was amiably answering questions. Then she noticed Clair being interviewed by a trendy media outlet.

" _What do you want to tell girls who want to follow in your footsteps?"_

"I just…I just think that you need to be yourself. You don't have to take your clothes off to be respected…..and….. _pizza!_ Pizza is always the answer." A gentle round of laughs permeated before she let out a loud belch. There was laughter.

"Tell us what it's like going from your home town to being invited to these parties."

Clair cleared her throat and stared ahead. Martha knew that look. Alfred and her theater friends had once showed her how one could tell whether or not one was telling the truth. This girl was trying to remember her 'script,' but her drunkenness precluded her. "Well, growing up like I did, you just learn to be humble. I miss milking the cows and riding the tractor. We were poor but we had each other. Like, I had cereal for dinner _almost every day_."

" _Mrs. Wayne! Mrs. Wayne, a word, please!"_

Martha felt the bile in her throat. She wanted to give the girl a verbal tongue lashing but she didn't want to risk tarnishing her reputation after carefully reconstructing it.

"Yeah, everyone. She's my girl."

 _Girl?_

The paparazzi were already imagining headlines: _**Gotham's Teen Queen Adds Gotham's Royalty to Her Motley Crew.**_ They rattled off questions in lightning-quick succession, attacking Martha from all directions.

" _Are you two planning a collaboration?"_

" _What did you talk about?"_

" _Martha, what do you think about Clair De Lune as an example for young people?"_

"I agree with Ms. De Lune that one needs to be honest with themselves." Martha turned to Clair. Her eyebrows were slightly raised, giving the ingénue a good look at her bright green eyes. "I also think that you are a _very_ good actress." She smiled and turned away, then walked briskly over to Thomas.

Clair looked confused.

Several members of the press let out a slow murmur of laughter, tapping onto their devices and scribbling notes. The looks on their faces hinted that they had struck gold for next trending topic. They could see the hash tags now.

 _Teen Queen snubbed by Gotham Royalty?_

"You played your part well," Thomas said as they slipped into their limousine.

"I was this close to splashing my drink in her face," Martha huffed.

"Glad you didn't, because that would be all over the front pages, and neither of us want that," Thomas chuckled.

"For heaven's sake, Thomas. That girl's idea of oppression is having the bread with the crust!"

Thomas grunted. It was his way of saying it was insignificant. She hated that about him.

"Back in those….days," she continued, dreamily, "I would go to the homeless shelters. Places I used to volunteer at when things were good. No makeup, of course. A scarf wrapped around the lower half of my face, to hide the scarring. Nobody recognized me. I had to survive on tomato soup and a piece of bread. I saw young artists who had a promising chance if only they had a sponsor. But _this_ girl..." She shook her head. " _This_ girl has tremendous power, and gains more followers by posting videos of herself making stupid faces and talking about her wind problems!"

"I got it. Next time, I'll only take you to the Met," Thomas grunted.

"This is _not_ funny!" Martha cried. "Thomas, back when I was…well, when I had to eat, I would visit the market place on Thursdays for their weekly farmer's market. I could only go after a certain time, when they wouldn't see me." She told Thomas about the disparity between these growers and the customers they would serve. They were 'artisanal' college kids who claimed to support low income communities while simultaneously displacing them. An assistant from the corn stall once offered to weigh the oranges she had been holding. She was a girl with dyed orange hair and was covered in tattoos of various figures from fairy tales. Martha could tell just by looking at her that she came from a "good home"; a situation which enabled her to spend an inordinate amount of time yelling at people on the internet. And when she finally tired of slacking off on a fruit stall, she'd take a staff-writer position on some pop culture website with a liberal bent, where she could continue playing 'Online savior'. She looked like those two 'professional' bloggers inside the gala. All image and no substance.

Although he didn't follow the movie scene as closely as his protégés did, Thomas knew that even starlets had to make peace with their principles, even if they contradicted them. He'd had to do it. He wasn't so sure if Martha was ready to make peace with her past yet.

 **Author's note: Hello everyone. For those of you following, I just wanted to thank you for your patience. I do plan on finishing this story but I was stuck on this chapter before I passed it onto my Beta. We both have a lot going on in our lives. I got this chapter back a month ago but due to real life commitments, I said I wasn't going to touch it until tonight (11/20/2016). I should be more consistent with posting more frequently. Thank you for waiting patiently. I have several chapters planned.**

 **PS, my beta is trapped in Stuckyland but she is still loyal to Batjokes.**


	5. Chapter 5: Queen of Wands

**Title: Paint it Black**

 **Ch.5: Queen of Wands**

 **Originally written July 3, 2016**

 **Author's note: If you are still reading this, thank you for reading. I have an ending for this story and I plan to update when time allows me. I look forward to hearing from you! I am having fun with this project. I also wanted to let you know that I have a twitter account. Feel free to contact me there if you wish. TBCC.**

* * *

Thomas knew that he would have to aid Barry, the Flash in Bruce's world, in order to right what was a very big wrong. As he understood, Barry had to deal with Wonder Woman and Aquaman. Apparently, they were all allies in another dimension and what that meant to say was that what really happened in his world, did not happen in that other universe.

As Thomas understood, it was he and Martha who succumbed to the gunman's bullet and it was Bruce who took it upon himself to avenge their deaths. As a man of science, he knew about atoms, molecules, nuclear fission; things that could be measured, calculated. Proven.

The idea that there was an alternate universe out there where his son was living and breathing gave him a sense of relief. At the same time, it was if it was all a cruel joke. On one hand, he felt that he should be relieved that Bruce was out there, his own flesh and blood alive and healthy and yet, they would both never know the simple milestones of life: Baseball games, chili dogs, helping Bruce with science fairs, Bruce's first car, his first girlfriend, high school, college graduation. These simple things were denied to him. They were denied to _them_. Things that most people took for granted were markers that he was supposed to mentally check off made him feel incomplete; a car without its parts, a formula that was half finished.

A father without his son who wasn't there.

But Barry was proof that he was. It was evidence that he was close and yet he was not.

It was like trying to catch fire.

The very possibility that they knew that the other was 'okay' on the other side sounded more like spiritual gibberish rather than logic.

Yet, he knew how much this meant to Martha. Thomas knew that he had to work fast. His time was short _. Their_ time was short.

He would use this little time that he had to reconnect with his estranged wife. There were so many things to catch up on. There were so many things he wanted to show her. They went to gallery openings. On his 'off' nights, he took her to her favorite book stores after hours so that they would enjoy some quiet time away from the mansion. They went to theaters. They had dinners and went to museums. He wanted to reconnect. He wanted them to feel 'normal' again. They both knew it was a farce but they went along with it. The walkways were the same, the same jeweler where he bought her pearls was still there. The place that sold that delicious gelato was still there by the fountain but something was missing.

Bruce's favorite was chocolate peppermint.

Martha lavished the attention Thomas gave to her. He would give affection to her in his own mysterious way. A shopping bag would be set on the table in their dining room. It was a gift set from one of her favorite cosmetics shops. There would be a card near the foyer _._ They were little mementos that he still paid attention to her even though he was occupied with other things. They would say things such as _'Treat yourself to a spa day_ '. Martha would take a gift card and use it. She also particularly loved the oils and lotions from a high-end store that sold organic.

One of her favorites was La Perla. She would spend hours there with her assistants to try to find something that they would _both_ enjoy.

Not only was Thomas responsible for the Wayne Estate, he had also started another venture while she was 'gone'. She wasn't completely oblivious to what he was doing while she was 'away'. Yo-Yo and her henchmen would feed her newsbytes of what was going on in Gotham.

He had opened up Wayne Casino.

She initially thought that it was unusual and charming, if not out of character. Thomas was more low key, preferring to remain in the background when it came to business matters. He was mysterious like that. Then she realized that there was a purpose to this strange venture. Thomas was not above playing a game of twenty-one or Goofspiel as he was very good at risk and strategy. This was an investment to attract the criminal element. If he couldn't find them in the alleys, abandoned warehouses or in intergalactic travels, he could bring them to him. It was a brilliant tactic.

She would read over Wayne Casino stocks either over her morning juice at Arkham Asylum or over the body of a goon who had crossed her. It was one thing to read about the Wayne legacy over print. It was quite another to see it in the flesh.

As soon as she stepped out of the private limousine, she gasped.

"My goodness, Thomas! It's like a circus!"

She marveled at its architecture. bright lights, and bold imagery. A moving billboard that promised the finest entertainment 'for the right price' was a bright beacon that shone in a city known for its crime rate and smog.

 _ **$9.99 Breakfast Buffet Special! Kids eat free before 11AM!**_

 _ **Live for 5 nights, Pandora!**_

 _ **Craps and Black Jack! Bets start as low as $5!**_

At Wayne Casino, people would buy chips, place their bets and be happy for a few hours. They would be treated to continental breakfasts and live shows. They would be distracted and forget that they lived in a place where freaks in costume were the 'norm'.

The dice rolled on the craps tables and Black Jack cards were folded. There were loud cheers at the Baccarat tables and there was loud ringing coming from the slot machines. A middle aged woman in bright pink hair grabbed her souvenir cup and placed it beneath the coin dispenser. She looked like she had a flamingo on her head.

"I'm going to Disneyworld!" She shrieked. "Morty, let's get some breakfast at the buffet!"

Martha glanced around and admired at how her husband found a way to make passive income. Wayne Casino was a popular spot for girls from Keystone to celebrate their twenty first birthdays, Arab playboys looking to find infidel girls for pleasure, and business men laying down the finishing touches for the upcoming convention.

The whole place was like a circus for adults. Bright colorful lights, cocktail waitresses walked around costumes bedecked with green feathers and sequins while they served Amaretto Pineapple mixes. Men wore their sharpest suits. She could even tell the 'type' just by looking at the color and texture. She saw young hustlers trying to cheat the craps tables and wannabe mobsters who were there to observe their bosses. She recognized Sal Maroni at one of the tables. Martha made a mental note to tell her husband about a deal that went sour because Sal backed off. She wanted him dead and she knew that Thomas was not above breaking his neck. However, she knew that the only way to get to Sal was to get through his vault. She had heard some rumors and Thomas was not above looking into tips

While the men tried to keep their best poker faces, their choice in attire subdued them. It was the women who enhanced the atmosphere with their fashionable choices which ranged from the slinky black dress to the hot pink gown. A stunning woman wore a sequined dress that had black and gold diamonds with yellow fringes. Her wrists and hands were adorned with gold metal and rings with pearls and rubies. She was practically donning what Yo-Yo wore minus the double dipped hair. Yo-Yo had worn something very similar during a heist at an underground club. Martha wanted to move in on the turf. She promised him a form of 'protection' if she had control over this secret space. The owner wouldn't budge. He was a large man covered in ink.

"Not until I see you two mud wrestle." Yo-Yo took are of the brute.

A woman walked by in nothing but a fish net dress. The bright lights overhead gave the 'Caesar' Wing of the Wayne Casino a vibe that was straight out of Toulouse-Lautrec's _Night at the Moulin Rouge_.

"Give me some of that magic, Lady Luck!" A portly sweaty man pressed a couple of die in Martha's direction. She smiled and blew gently onto his palm before he rolled them across the table.

"A solid pair!"

The whole table cheered.

Martha smiled and waved at the faces who were beyond thrilled at finally getting a glimpse of the "mysterious" mistress of Wayne Casino.

She was invited to many a table to watch the game, have a drink or to chat. The women wanted fashion tips from her. A woman in a very bold leopard print dress pulled her aside, admiring her like a star struck fan meeting their idol.

Martha learned to brush off the intrusive questions by using one of her old tricks.

"Dr. Jack Kevorkian. He's to DIE for and his rates are a kill." Martha said demurely.

"Oh God!" The woman said with a loud laugh. "Ain't she a riot?" The woman said while spilling a bit of her lemon cocktail.

A woman would share tips but she would never share her secrets.

Thomas and Martha walked along the corridors. Guests took out their mobile devices and snapped away. Thomas tried to move along while Martha gently blew kisses. They were clearly THE power couple in the house, but there were some notable contrasts. Thomas was focused. His attention was rapt, he was trying to get them to their destination. She in the meantime, answered some small questions and politely took requests for pictures but walked briskly with her husband. He wore a dark suit, almost as if to blend in with the shadows and darkly lit rooms. She wore a shining yellow number and interacted with the guests, stopping to pose for pictures while ignoring questions about her family no matter how vaguely worded. One inch and they would take a whole mile. She did not want any reminders.

There was respect and there was intrusion.

They passed by the children's arcade. Martha stopped. Children from various ages were engaged in a variety of games and fun activities. Little toddlers played in the apparatus that was filled with colorful plastic balls. The slightly bigger ones crawled through bright orange tubes, looking like little monkeys at play. The older ones played ski ball, air hockey and ping pong. Thomas even installed a simulated version of the Batmobile.

Everyone was having the time of their lives.

She continued to walk along, looking at this wonderland that Thomas had created. Bruce would have loved it. It was as if he took their personal tragedy and reinvented it into something constructive. That was where there differences lay and they never spoke a word about it. Thomas took his grief and used to it hunt the criminal element while she used her rage as a deadly weapon.

There was a popcorn mixer. The children could choose the color of their snack. They gleefully munched on their confection. There was a cart that was selling warm peanut butter cookies and hot chocolate.

There was a carnival game that looked very much like 'Duck Hunt' except that it did not have yellow cardboard but outs of the water fowl. Instead, they were all people, or rather they all looked like one person. The 'toy man' wore blue, had a red cape, and a curl of hair in front of his face. The 'bullets' that hit him were green. A little girl had hit three in a row. Thomas personally grabbed and handed her a very large Scooby Doo toy.

Martha noted and chuckled at the display.

"I miss your smile, and your laughter."

The happy environment brought a memory back into her consciousness. It wasn't a memory but more of a memory of a dream that she once had. In that dream, she wore a purple suit and she was giving children cotton candy. What made the dream peculiar was that the cotton pink sweet was toxic. In that same dream, there were two children. Now that she remembered, they were not children. They were more like dolls. They were talking dolls. She vaguely recalled a cloud of dust coming from their mouths, people screaming in a theater…..

A child screamed and laughed as he played in the pool of plastic balls. It snapped her out of her 'trance'.

She bent down to pick up a redeemable token that a child dropped.

"Here you go, darling."

When she looked up, she saw a very familiar pair of blue eyes staring back at her.

"Oh,"

Thomas saw this and stood back. He saw it to. It was the little girl.

It was Dolores.

Dolores stared ahead at Martha, almost as if she was in a trance. Martha knew that she had to make a move and quickly.

"Are you having fun, honey?" Martha said in a gentle motherly voice. Dolores took the token and put it in her little pocket. Her little pink overalls were perfectly matched with her white undershirt.

Dolores then reached up and tried to touch the bottom half of Martha's face.

Martha's eyes widened. Thomas leaned slightly back.

"Lola! Do not stare! Is she bothering you?" A young woman with similar colored hair leaned down and picked up her daughter.

"I am so sorry, Mrs. Wayne. Lola's just not used to new people. I am Harvey's wife."

"Thomas has told me so much about you," Martha said warmly.

"Lola, honey. Say, hello. This is Mr. Wayne's wife."

"H-hello," Dolores said in a low tone. It was as if she was scared.

"She's just not used to meeting new people. She's just like her father. She's worried that they will double cross her one day. Isn't that right, baby?" Dolores's mother nuzzled her daughter's little nose.

Pangs struck at Martha.

She remembered when she did that to Bruce.

"Lola, did you know that Mr. and Mrs. Wayne had a son? He was like you but something sad happened to him. That is why Mr. Wayne made this place so that all the little children in Gotham can be happy." She made an exaggerated sad face.

Dolores laid her head down on her mother's shoulder. A painful emotion tugged at Martha. She remembered Bruce doing that as a little baby.

She remembered the painful birth that resulted in that beautiful infant. She remembered nursing him, changing his little diapers. She remembered the laughter when she gave him his favorite toy which was a clown.

 _A clown, oh God._

"She's just a little shy." Dolores's mother said in a profusely apologetic manner.

"That's quite all right. It must be all the noise. She must be tired."

"She had so much fun at the Gardens. Thomas, this city cannot thank you enough!"

"The safety and nurturing of the children is my priority," Thomas said firmly.

"Are you hungry, baby? Why don't we go to the buffet and have something to eat? When you are done, you can have some warm apple pie."

Apple pie. Acid pie.

"Lovely to catch up with you, Mrs. Dent. Tell Harvey that we send our best!"

"Oh, I will. Martha, it was so good to see you!"

Thomas pulled her close.

"Are you all right?" He said gently.

"I, I am fine," Martha said in a breathy tone. "It's all right, Thomas. I-I don't want what happened in the past to define me…"

"Let's go."

Thomas wanted to move past this part. He was sure that she wouldn't respond neutrally to the children. Too many unpleasant memories. Surprisingly, she seemed to function rather well. If only Mrs. Dent wasn't there. That was the domino piece that made the trail fall early. She should NOT have been there. Martha was not ready.

"Honey, really, I…" Martha looked back. Dolores was still looking at her. She ran a little hand down her cheek. Martha turned back, ashamed.

There was a show where acrobats performed complex routines in the air and the water. There was also a twenty first century impromptu retelling of the ribald story of _Auntie Mame_ that takes place in Sin City. The last part was a performance piece. Thomas figured that the first show was too much like a circus and in the end they settled for a lounge act.

A young woman was dressed in what looked like attire that would fit into Val Lewton's _Cat People._ A mass of jet black hair and an outline donning crushed velvet appeared, looking like a strange apparition. She was someone that she met at the gala a few weeks earlier. It was Pandora.

Martha was pleased to see her. She was a fresh breath of air compared to her contemporaries. While their overdubbed and overproduced tones crooned over drink, money and garden variety crassness, Pandora injected more serious subject matter in her work and it reflected in her choice of attire. She was more mature and sophisticated than her peers. Martha had to admit that anyone under 25 who could refer to someone like Faust without irony in her artistic work was worthy of respect.

The ensemble began. Trumpets, the cowbell, trumpets again.

 _When marimba rhythms start to play  
Dance with me, make me sway  
Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore  
Hold me close, sway me more_

Martha smiled. The girl had chops. It was like hearing Rosemary Clooney live.

 _Other dancers may be on the floor  
Dear, but my eyes will see only you  
Only you have that magic technique  
When we sway I go weak_

She moved closer to Thomas. The girl's low vocals exuded a mysterious yet raw sexuality. Most of the popular acts that she was aware of had a superficial, if not, cartoonish understanding of it. They were plasticized androids completely devoid of personality and essence and in turn to compensate for that void, they substituted that with crassness. They tried to make a statement without completely understanding what they wanted to say. They were like posed dolls which was appropriate. They were mannequins designed by others to 'sell' a product. An apex predator did not have to put up a 'front' to command respect, it just was. Pandora just was.

As Pandora sang, Martha sighed. Pandora's authenticity reminded her of her own desire to come to terms with her true self, to make peace with her two halves. As Joker, she indulged in her darkest impulses. They were her but they were her at her worst, at her darkest. Her rock bottom. As a Kane, she was taught proper manners and etiquette. As Joker, those rules did not apply. She meant what she said and signed it with blood. She was glad to have gone back to that normal life of quiet dinners and reading classics in the den but Pandora's alluring darkness was another part of who she was. The full bodied laced dress and soft crooning lyrics, the Victorian lace and red lips; she commanded the stage without moving yet she exuded emotion with her words. She was two people in one. She carefully sublimated those two personas into one: the maid and the witch, the wench and the ingénue, the girl and the wise woman. Pandora was a talented singer. Her breathy tones captured a nuance that emphasized emotion. She told a story not with her words but with her intonations and emphasis. Edith Piaf had it, Linda Vera had it.

Martha shifted in her seat. She had a history but now was not the time to come to terms with it. Yet, there was a part of her that did change. It was very notable when she was intimate with Thomas.

The next performer was a more upbeat one. It was Devil Doll. Her show combined burlesque and circus performances. Martha quite liked her. She took humorous stride in her work. She brought Martha back from that spell. Devil Doll was half coy minx and vaudevillian comedian. Finally, Pandora returned but she looked different than before.

What made her stand out was her choice in make-up. She was wearing a performance piece. Her lips were red but the lipstick was not meticulously set on her lips. It was running. Her eyes were patted down with what looked like black charcoal. It was a ghostly look. Martha adjusted in her seat.

 _Now if I appear carefree_

 _It's only to camouflage my sadness,_

 _And honey to shield my pride I try_

 _To cover this show with a hurt of gladness_

Martha could feel Pandora looking at her. It was as if she knew her deepest, darkest secrets. It was as if she was prying out the history that she wanted to move away from by looking at her eyes. At the same time, Martha knew that this was nothing more than a performance piece. This was NOT an attempt by Pandora to 'out' her. They barely interacted at the gala. Pandora was known for her dark themes, her macabre sense of fashion and her love of deep, sensual psychology. However, it was as if the 'black swan' had seen through Martha's image.

She slowly rose up and began to walk towards the exit. Thomas follower her.

"No, Thomas."

"I will talk to the promoters and the people who organize the show schedules. We can change it." Thomas pleaded.

That look in his eyes, that tone. It was like old times. She remembered those nights. In the pouring rain he would plead to her. He would get her out of the Asylum if she would cooperate. Poor silly man, she would think.

She smiled down at him. Those ruby lips curved into a subtle but suggestive grin. Thomas noted the indirect gesture. He ignored the possibility about it suggesting anything more. He was not here for that. They were here as a couple, not as enemies.

"I will be in the suite."

In another time, she would have found other ways to cope with her stress. Sometimes, Yoyo would say that it was time to 'visit' their favorite princess 'Snow White' after which she would open a small bag and spread the contents on the table, spread it using a broken credit card or razor before rolling up a bill. Martha found other ways to unwind. She preferred light exercise at the asylum gym or a book.

Other times, she would devise ways to terrorize her estranged husband. She would take her notebooks from the art therapy classes and doodle her plans.

That was then. She could not go back to that. She did not want to go back. She was a former addict who got out of rehab and did not want to return to that old life no matter how tempting.

But there were reminders everywhere.

She turned on the television. She hoped that something mindless would take her mind off what had happened this evening. Nothing soothed her like the Saturday night specials on Turner Classic Movies but she decided to see there was anything else on the local channels.

Click

"- _I knew I should have taken a left turn at Albuquerque!_ "

Click

"- _You can't handle the truth!_ "

Click

"- _The lioness stalks her prey, slowly and meticulously._ "

Martha stopped.

"Prides are composed of one to four males. The females are related and do most of the hunting."

"Not unlike people. Isn't that right, girls?" Martha mused. She poured herself a G&T. The screen focused on one. She was quite the specimen and she looked regal while she overlooked her land over a small hill. Her tawny coat was the color of faded gold and her eyes were the same tone as the desert sand. Beautiful. Graceful. Deadly. Martha felt a sort of kinship lioness.

"Lionesses weigh up to four hundred pounds are capable or bringing down prey much larger than their own. This makes them excellent huntresses."

Ah, Huntress. I remember the Sow. Too impulsive, not subtle. The screen focused on the lioness. Sarabi's hazel eyes were intense. Her most powerful weapons were in her jaws. Martha chuckled. With just the right words, she knew that she would send anyone into a distress. With just the right words, just the right triggers, she would have them eating out of her hand or begging them to stop. She smiled. Her most dangerous weapons weren't made out of steel and copper.

They were her teeth and tongue.

The narrator's voice was slow and guttural.

"Lions can eat a variety of prey that will include, zebra, buffalo, and even crocodiles."

Martha recalled a time when she had an issue with Croc. He had defaulted on a loan. She personally went to teach him a lesson. Her henchmen killed his. The living ones who remained joined her. Before she left, she whispered 'Cross me again and I will ask for a handbag. I heard Crocodile is very popular now.'

"Enemies of the lion include leopards, buffalo, and hyena."

The screen showed footage of a lion fighting with two hyenas before she gave it a powerful swipe and bit down on its neck, severing its spinal cord. The sounds coming from the hyena were some of the most ungodly she had ever heard. It was a scream, a final cry.

She could still hear the gun shots _._

 _Two._

 _Bang. Bang._

 _It was one of her finest moments. She had to do it. It was to prove a point. The little cow was getting too close to Thomas. She could still see the girl lying in a pool of blood. Her cats hiding behind chairs. A fat orange tabby hissed at her. She shot it._

" _That will teach you to touch another woman's property," Martha hissed._

 _She then took out a single Capri and lit it._

" _I know a young women about your age. She is a fantastic gymnast. You on the other hand will be stuck using Depends at the ripe old age of twenty four!"_

"Fights between lions and their enemies mostly occur because of competition for food, but there is evidence to suggest that these predators are not above in killing for sport."

Martha leaned forward, intrigued at the possibility that these animals could somehow be sentient and not just respond to pure instinct.

"Because competition for food is fierce, lions are not above killing the cubs of their enemies. This has an especially devastating effect on hyena clans."

She aimed the remote at the screen.

Off.

End credits: The songs that Pandora performs are 'Sway' by Rosemary Clooney. The other lyrics are from 'Tears from a clown' by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles.


End file.
